The Game of Betrayal
by RedSword12
Summary: The final pieces orchestrating the Red Wedding are finally in place. With the knife at Robb Stark's back, Roose Boltons senses an opportunity to solidify his house's future in the North, and make Winterfell his own. Measures must be taken, for the future is ever in motion, and every opportunity to bind time's path to his will must be used to the fullest, or he will face the block.
1. Prologue

Roose Bolton reread Lord Tywin's letter, sitting at the cooling hearth, and lit only by candlelight. He plucked a leech off his leg with one hand and dropped it in the water-filled pail, ignoring the sharp pinch as the parasite lost its grip.

He leaned back into the hard-wooden back of his chair, tucking the letter into his pocket. The conspiracy Lord Tywin had arranged with him and Lord Frey was critical for him to become Warden of the North. When Robb Stark was slain at Edmure Tully's wedding, all opposition to the Lannisters would crumble. In turn, House Frey would be appointed the new head of the Riverlands, and Roose would receive the title of Warden of the North.

His bastard Ramsay had already taken the fortress of Winterfell from the Ironborn. Roose did have some misgivings on how his bastard had done it, however. Betraying the raiders after betraying Rodrik Cassel as well would likely cause serious issues with future negotiations. The North would never forget about Donelle Hornwood's grisly fate after Ramsay married and raped her. Chewing off her own fingers while starving to death in a cold tower… Ramsay should have flayed her instead if he was going to kill her anyway.

Ramsay was a failure for his house. The Bastard had to go. The harm he had done to any trust with the Northerners was practically irrepareable. With luck, however, his wife "Fat Walda" Frey would bear him a trueborn son in several months. If Ramsay received word of the marriage with Walda… Roose abandoned this line of thought. He had given this thought ever since Walder arranged the match. The "Bolton" would be dealt with soon enough.

He reread Tywin's letter for a final time.

 _Harrion Karstark,_

 _If all goes well, Robb Stark will die at the Tully's wedding feast as arranged. I trust that lord Frey's men are separate from the Northerners. For obvious reasons, Catelyn Stark and Edmure Tully must be spared. If the reasons for this order are not clear to lord Frey, you are expected to explain them to him. Hostages are required if peace is to be negotiated— or forced._

 _Tywin Lannister_

With a leech-covered hand, he tucked the letter back into a leather bag and bound it closed. The heat coming from the dying embers warmed his body like a bath of fresh blood. Lord Bolton frowned. He could hear the voices of Merret and Lothar Frey arguing. What a fool, that Merret Frey. A burly man with the intelligence of a layman and a predictable weakness for drink. Roose despised Merret the most out of those who had accompanied him to Harrenhal. He was not his least favorite Frey, but that was not saying much. If any of those squabbling Freys managed to fuck up the conspiracy next month, Robb would force him to take the black like a common criminal and go to the wall. That is if the Young Wolf did not simply execute him immediately. He picked a freshly soaked leech from the pail and put it on his leg.

* * *

 _A messenger garbed in Bolton colors dismounted from his light horse. The man strode past a line of prisoners, earning little more than a few curious glances. Herman Talhart walked up to him and shook his hand, the letter slipping into his hands. The carrier nodded but uttered not a word. Robett peeled the pink wax seal off the paper like skin from flesh, finally unfolding it completely._

 _Greetings Lord Talhart._

 _I recieved word that you were besieging Castle Darry. I trust you have taken it by the time you are reading this letter, and that your casualties are limited as I have a new task for you. As soon as your men are rested, march on the Antlers and capture It by storm. It must happen before the Lannisters and Tyrells assault you with overwhelming force. At any sign of an army of theirs, I expect you to pull back to Harrenhal with great haste. If a retreat in that direction becomes unviable, I suggest you move on Maidenpool, and send a messenger to inform me. The Brave Companions have recently taken the town and its keep. But movement there is not to be taken lightly. Avoid being cut off from my forces at all costs! If you must take refuge in Maidenpool I will be unable to help you. Unfortunately, I must inform you that you must execute your prisoners. I understand that it be against your scruples, but they will only slow you down and any man spent guarding them is a man absent from battle._

 _Roose Bolton._

 _Helman refolded the letter, and thanked the messenger, who just waved him off grimly, as if he knew the contents of it._

 _"Do you wish me to carry a message to Lord Bolton?"_

 _"I do. Expect to receive one before tomorrow morning," said he, wiping from his head a sudden burst of cold sweat. The messenger stalked off, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner. A flayed man upon a field of pink sprinkled with droplets of blood. The emblem waved wildly in the whistling wind, as if to mock him for his upcoming task._

* * *

 _The prisoner screamed incoherent begs for mercy, thrashing wildly, his arms held fast by the guards and his head pinned against the cold block. Helman held his sword above the man's bared, shaking neck._

 _"I, Helman Talhart, Lord of Torrhen's Square and House Talhart, bannerman of Robb Stark, King of the North and the Trident, sentence you to die." The blade thudded against flesh, bone, and wood. There was silence. A stream of red poured down the block from the corpse's twitching neck. The guards waited until the stream ebbed, and threw the body and head into the burial pit. Wordlessly, the soldiers grabbed another prisoner, ignoring his incoherent cries for mercy. The men dragged him to the block, blood seeping from his knees as they scraped against the sharp flagstones. He lifted the massive blade and recited the words of execution over the sound of weeping men. The blade hit the block._

* * *

Helman urged his horse through the fresh mud, leading a column of infantry at his back. The majority of his men were strewn about, hacking down doors in a futile search of valuables. Desperate lads. Any locals with a bronze stag of sense would have taken everything with them. Normally they would have burned them to the ground but the timber was so damp it was too difficult to even bother trying. It was five nights since Lord Bolton ordered them to depart from Castle Darry after executing their prisoners. The murders were shameful, but neccesary to keep their army at full strength and prisoners would only slow them down.

Helman watched as men ahead reached a barn and disappeared inside. There didn't seem to be much reason to be doing this, unless Roose wanted to vex the Lannisters who were occupied fighting Stannis around King's Landing. He supposed it was why Lord Bolton believed they would be able to carry out this raid unopposed.

The rapid sound of hoofbeats rang on the road behind him. A horseman rode up the road behind him, slowed slightly by the mud. As Lord Glover turned his steed around to face him the young fellow attempted a clumsy bow from atop his horse as he slowed to a halt in front of him.

"News?"

"Lord Glover's scouts have reported columns of smoke behind us, milord. Glover believes we are only seven miles south-east of Harrion Karstark's army," said the rider. Helman cursed under his breath. Dusk was approaching. While it was possible the five hundred-strong force of Karstark men could reach Helman Talhart's rearguard detachment before nightfall, it was unlikely they would be able to set camp before darkness.

"Tell Lord Glover to dispatch a messenger to Lord Karstark's men with a request to join forces on the road tomorrow. My men will be setting camp shortly… and I expect Lord Glover's men to do the same," said Helman after a brief pause.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Now deliver the message," said Talhart, waving the messenger off.

* * *

The Kingsroad was swollen with mires of water and mud. The men drew their cloaks taut, faces set grimly as heavy rain pattered upon their sagging shoulders. Horses thrashed in the swampy ground, hooves stuck under several inches of mud. Villages that may have provided them respite were reduced to smoldering heaps of ash. Harrion Karstark took a swig of rainwater from his helmet, frowning. He had little trouble thinking about who had burnt them down. Robett Glover and Helman Talhart's men. He grumbled curses under his breath in the vague direction he thought they were in. He was glad there were no Lannister soldiers in the area. Supposedly. Something in the back of his mind told him otherwise. The paltry scout force he had with him was hardly enough to tell for certain.

It was fortunate they were catching up to the main force, even considering the problems the army had caused to his men. Any reasonably strong Lannister party would crush his army like a mountain crashing down upon their heads. Stannis's assault on King's Landing had been rumored to be successful. The whispers were probably true now that he thought of the grim silence of the land. But he could not suppress the burning ember of fear embedded deep within his mind. His fiery Karstark heart told him something was coming. And he had no idea what it was.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. I will not say what my plans for the plot are, as they are still forming, but I hope you will enjoy future chapters. As usual, reviews are appreciated! This is only my second fan fiction, and I really want constructive criticism of my work. Do not feel afraid to inform me of what I did wrong. I wrote this after I got a little burned out from working on my other story. I doubt I will be able to release another chapter soon, but it really depends on if I have the motivation for it.


	2. The Captain of the Dreadfort

A puddle of rainwater swelled in the storm, mingled with blood flowing from the guardsman's throat. A lord and seven men sheltered beneath the imposing archway of the gate, cold water dripping sharp and rusty teeth of the portcullis hanging in the darkness above them.

Lord Bolton knelt next to the dead guardsman at their feet, leaning over it closely, a great stench of decaying flesh rising from a slit in its exposed neck as he turned it over. Walton 'Steelshanks' wrinkled his nose in disgust but knelt with his liege, steeling himself for the identity of the murdered guard as he bent over the corpse to get a closer look.

"Seven hells…" he muttered. Maron's lifeless face stared back at him. Flecks of blood covered his face from eye to chin like rust on a dagger. Maron's opened mouth was rimmed with blood, as was his nose. Walton swiftly recoiled, but he remembered what lord would judge him, so he forced his head closer until his nostrils were filled with the putrid smell of death.

As captain of Roose's guardsmen, it was his duty to be in Lord Bolton's presence, and most importantly, never to complain. Many of his men called to him by the name _Steelshanks_ for the expensively decorated greaves he had despoiled from a corpse during Robert's rebellion. Not a single fleck of rust ever tarnished the surface of these costly plates since they came under his possession.

Roose gave him a queer look from over the corpse, as if he had noticed Walton's suppressed expression of hunger.

"How long is he dead?"

"I asked the patrolmen who came in through this gate not long ago. Recent ones entered less than an hour ago and they swear he was still on his feet when they saw him."

Roose pried the slit throat open, putting his eyes so close Walton thought he intended to see _inside_ the body. Blood-colored fluids seeped through Lord Bolton's fingers in the manner of juices from a sumptuous plum as the corpse's stench intensified. The lord of the Dreadfort payed it no heed, widening the gash as if he was peeling an apple, until it was wide enough for a man to slide a hand through.

 _Boltons certainly benefit from their experience when it comes to peeling flesh_ , he supposed. _Especially rotting flesh._

"The latest patrols have yet to return?" Lord Bolton said over the thunderous pattering of the rain, removing his hands from the corpse and climbed to his feet.

"Yes, milord." Walton patted his leather pouch for the familiar clink of coins. "I would give orders that any man who enters this fastness be questioned… at your pleasure of course. Would you permit that I may dispatch them to the men expediently and in your name?"

Roose just nodded, wiping his bloodstained fingers on the sodden red cloak hanging about his shoulders in such a way southrons would surely be offended. Walton allowed himself a brief upward curl of his lip in a grim smile. His liege did not need insincere courtesies to attain respect from underlings like him.

"Very well. I trust you arranged for them to be questioned in my solar?" said Lord Bolton. _Roose always has his way of knowing these things, doesn't he_ , thought Walton as he nodded, drops of water shaking off his chin as he did so. The Lord of Leeches could read his men like a scroll; it was said amongst the smallfolk that the leeches whispered him secrets in return for the blood they sucked from his pale body at night.

"Yes, my lord," replied Walton. "May I ask who—."

"Have you more to say?" said Roose calmly. Glistening water droplets covered his face yet it remained emotionless, as if he had been merely examining tracks on the ground. Walton would have shuddered, but he had served this lord ever since the Trident.

"No. I do not. But do you have any idea who killed him?" said Walton, glancing at the guardsman's soaked corpse. His lord just looked at him with his dead grey eyes. No signs of anger marked his face, but the rest told him enough. Roose Bolton gestured at two of his guardsmen behind his back to step forward and pick up the body.

"Bring it to Qyburn and tell him I would have him prepare it for burial in the godswood."

The lord turned back to face Walton as the two guards carried the body off. _Here it comes,_ he thought.

"Gather men from the barracks and double the guard at the gates. Use trustworthy men… not our turncloak mercenaries." Roose lowered his voice as he said the last few words. "Send word if a servant or soldier is missed. And have a keen eye fixed on the Brave Companions. It is very possible it was one of them. Are you capable of that?" Raindrops shook off Walton's face as he quickly nodded.

The scoundrels of Vargo the "lord of Harrenhall," were known for their violent tendencies. It would not be the first time one killed supposed friends. Even though ended favorably for him his men, these men were not to be trusted. Men who loosen the links of gold, swords, or oaths, are apt to slacken them further. He was not surprised at hearing Tywin Lannister's servantry's tales of how swiftly innocent exchanges between Lannisters and Brave Companions turned from words to steel. No wonder they had been so gleeful when parading Amory Lorch around the courtyard naked and into the bear pit, whipping his skin red all the way.

"Yes, milord," replied Walton, and waited a few moments for his liege lord to continue.

"Now go and set to it," said Roose, and strode off towards the keep. _To the warmth of hearth and bed_ , thought the captain, waving several Bolton men to accompany him as he set to do his duty, doing his best to ignore the pangs of hunger.

* * *

It was suspected the next morning that a group of servants murdered the guard, who that night. Walton agreed with Roose's explanation: three of the servants did the deed with stolen knives and fled the fastness with the three stolen coursers found to be missing the morning. Lord Bolton's late cupbearer was found to be missing, as well as the smith Mathis's young apprentice and a plump pantryboy. How they had managed to kill him, an experienced member of the house guard, was beyond him, but the young smith was supposedly really strong.

The procession of Brave Companions seemed to be angry enough about it at the morning meal, although he had no idea why the bastards would care about some guard. Seven hells, it was doubtful they would care if one of their own had been the one murdered. Fat Zollo, though, he looked livid, as he reached for the plate heaped with roasted trout, although Walton had to admit that was not uncommon for him. Shagwell the fool waddled to the bench, the silver bells hanging from his cap ringing raucously through the hall, and reached for a platter piled high with roasted trout.

Vargo himself was not present, having taken an early breakfast before striking out with twenty men and his boy-fucking septon in search of the missing servants.

As Walton sat on a bench next to Roose Bolton's empty seat, carving into a browned cut of fish with a knife he noted it was fortunate that the Brave Companion's steeds had not been pilfered as well. The sellswords under "Lord Vargo of Harrenhal" and "House Hoat" would have rapidly started killing soldiers and loosened the already weak knot the army consisted of.

Walton had to admit, the trout was well cooked. It truly was a shame Lord Bolton was not here to eat it. Some of his men had said while waiting for the food that they had seen him enter the Wailing Tower with Lame Lothar, perhaps to alleviate the tensions with the ever-numerous Freys living inside.

Reflecting on this, Walton noted that it was fortunate the Brave Companions had not taken fancy to killing a Frey yet; Men from the twins made up a large proportion of the men garrisoned in the fortress, and should they leave, the army would be significantly smaller. Lord Roose and Lothar managed only to keep a tenuous grip over the rest, most of whom wished to return home over Robb Stark's broken betrothal.

He peeled off the skin and put it in a pile at a corner of his plate for later, and did the same with the flesh, putting the sharp spines on the other side. Most men of Bolton knew the ironic tale of Bold Mischlad Greyiron, who conquered White Harbour from House Manderly after numerous victories against the Starks but finally died when his guts were punctured by a sharp fish spine he had swallowed. The corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly. T'would have been most kind of the Old Gods if he had managed to finish off the bloated Manderly line before his fateful fish… but alas, the world was not governed by ones who favored House Bolton. Perhaps their fortunes would change for the better after this war.

Walton's musings ended as a conversation on the adjacent table caught his ear.

"Vargo wanted that cupbearer, faithful Urswyck told me," said Shagwell from across the table in an exaggeratedly high voice. "He seeks for a bedwarmer, methinks."

"Well he still has one whore…" replied a fat, surly-looking Dothraki by the name of Zollo. "What was her name?"

"Pia?" asked Shagwell, cocking his head to the side with a clamor. "Young serving girl, mess of brown hair atop her head, and a scar on her inner thigh right next to her cunt. You would remember her well, given how many times I saw you shag her arse red.

"Aye, that is her. I fought with my bedfellows every night to keep her but I never thought to remember her name." Zollo gave a hearty chuckle and heaved a cut of fish into his voluminous mouth. "She will be sorely missed when Vargo takes her for himself."

"She will be." Shagwell said it almost longingly. He gave a deep sigh. "We should get ourselves a brothel's worth of fucks with her before Hoat strips her from us." Zollo grunted his agreement and the two returned to eating as Walton looked on.

He averted his eyes and resumed eating. He was no southron septon; he had made whores of fair womenfolk as his blood was still up from a fight, but to be so cruel as to use the same serving girl for weeks on end was beyond him. Walton deeply regretted that Roose had to allow such deeds in Harrenhal. If the Brave Companions still served the Lannisters, he would have found it easy in his heart to kill such brigands.

Soon his plate was empty and he reached for strips of dried stockfish to chew on his way out. He had two in his hands, but then he thought better of it and put them back. No longer hungry, Roose's captain climbed to his feet and marched out of the hall, hoping to bend his line of thought somewhere else.


End file.
